


with all the best intent

by clovenhooves



Series: exploits [4]
Category: The Centricide (Webseries)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Choking, Dom/sub Undertones, Forgive Me, HOW is this the longest part so far jfc i am so sorry, Internalized Homophobia, Love Confessions, Multi, Sexual Fantasy, Slurs, Stargazing, Verbal Humiliation, like a lil bit at the end, nazi has a fantasy that could be seen as noncon or dubcon, references to the third reich, the second fic i have written about sex in a public park, which turns into
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:21:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27057127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clovenhooves/pseuds/clovenhooves
Summary: “I have known for quite a while about Ancom’s promiscuity,” Commie mutters, plastered-on smile unwavering. “I just never expected him to...to...with the fascist.” He shudders.“Is that...going to be a problem for the two of you?”“No!” Commie snaps, too quick. He takes in a deep breath, regaining some composure. “No. Not at all. Of course not. I am very supportive of his- of quis lifestyle. Just as qui is in a relationship with me, qui is free to…” he pauses, gritting his teeth through the last bit of the sentence, “sexually explore others.”“So you’re cool with this.”“Yes.”“You’re cool with Ancom fucking Nazi.”“Of course!”“...You sure?”Commie looks like he’s about to spontaneously burst into flames.“Yes.”---Tensions rise among the extremists as relationships tangle and twist. Ancom has something very important to tell the man qui's supposed to despise the most.
Relationships: Ancom/Commie, Ancom/Nazi, Authleft/Libleft, Commie/Ancom, LibLeft/AuthLeft, Nazi/Ancom, authright/libleft, leftist unity - Relationship, libleft/authright, opposite unity - Relationship
Series: exploits [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1947619
Comments: 8
Kudos: 71





	with all the best intent

Slowly, gradually, Nazi wakes up. Damn, he’d slept well. Judging by the light coming in through his windows it had to be past noon, and his body is heavy with that sort of bone-deep contentment that usually comes from a deep sleep. 

He sits up and straightens his back, prompting a loud _pop_ from his spine. He turns his neck to the side and cracks it one way, then the other. Last night was a bit fuzzy, and usually he despises rising so late, but surely one day couldn’t hurt. He blinks, groggy - there’s a strange weight on his chest, and he looks down to find- 

To find Ancom cuddling up against his bare chest, fast asleep. 

Said bare chest is covered in hickies and teeth marks. 

Oh god. 

He blinks, looks a little closer at the sleeping anarchist- 

_Ancom is wearing his shirt._ It hangs loosely on his small frame, unbuttoned and oversized. Nazi’s eyes drift over Ancom’s skin, grimacing at the bruises dappling the pale flesh. Memories of what exactly had happened last night come flooding over him in waves. 

The back of Nazi’s skull hits the headboard with a soft _thump_. 

It was useless to deny it now. 

Like it or not, he was a homosexual. 

…

Fuck dwelling on that. He’s going back to sleep. 

Commie stands at the stove, flipping a pancake with a few clunky nudges of his spatula. Behind him, he hears the distinct flighty footsteps of Ancap, seemingly summoned by the smell of cooking food. 

“Ah, good afternoon, kulak,” Commie calls over a broad shoulder. “Have you eaten anything substantial today? I have enough batter to make a late breakfast for all of us.” Before Ancap can respond, he purses his lips, eyebrows furrowing as his own words reminded him of something that had been troubling him. “Do you happen to know where Ancom is? He- ah, _qui_ \- hasn’t responded to any of my text messages.” 

“I think qui’s still in Nazi’s room,” Ancap says, taking a seat at the kitchen island. He pulls out his cell phone from his pocket, pulling up his stocks on instinct before switching apps to type out a text to his leftist counterpart. 

Commie nearly drops his spatula. He turns a bit, keeping one eye on the stove as he asks - voice oddly tense - “...And what exactly would he be doing in there?” 

Ancap raises his eyebrows over his sunglasses, tilting his head up at the communist. “Uh. They...slept together.” 

Commie is quiet. Too quiet. Ancap looks around the room, suddenly claustrophobic, before his eyes settle on Commie’s obnoxious _Kiss The Comrade_ apron. He wouldn’t say he was _afraid_ of Commie, exactly, but no one could deny that the man was threatening. Even behind the protective shield of his shades, Ancap feels like Commie’s blood-red eyes are glaring straight through him. 

Finally, Commie breaks out into laughter. Loud, ear-splitting laughter, the kind that was clearly forced. His face splits into a pained smile, actual fucking _tears_ drizzling down his face as he doubles over. 

“That is a good one, comrade! It took me a second, but yes, very funny, very humorous. Now, seriously, where did he go? He is going to miss out on lunch, and he’s already just skin and bone-” 

“Uh, Commie? I’m being serious here.” Ancap sits up, suddenly concerned. “I...I thought you knew. I thought it was obvious.” 

Commie shakes his head, still laughing. “Ha! Kulak, _what on earth are you talking about_ _?_ ” His left eye twitches. It’s unsettling. 

A bit shakily, Ancap replies, “They’ve been...sexually intimate with each other for a while now. At least a month. I mean, I haven’t been keeping track.” He blinks, quickly typing out another message on his phone before setting it face-down on the table. “Qui didn’t...mention it?” 

“I have known for quite a while about Ancom’s _promiscuity_ ,” Commie mutters, plastered-on smile unwavering. “I just never expected him to...to...with the _fascist_.” He shudders. 

“Is that...going to be a problem for the two of you?” 

“No!” Commie snaps, too quick. He takes in a deep breath, regaining some composure. “No. Not at all. Of course not. I am _very supportive_ of his- of _quis_ lifestyle. Just as qui is _in a relationship_ with me, qui is free to…” he pauses, gritting his teeth through the last bit of the sentence, _“sexually explore_ others.” 

“So you’re cool with this.” 

“Yes.” 

“You’re cool with Ancom fucking Nazi.” 

“Of course!” 

“...You sure?” 

Commie looks like he’s about to spontaneously burst into flames. 

“Yes.” 

“Well, I’m proud of you, statist. That’s quite mature of- _oh fuck Commie the pancakes!”_

Commie turns around to find that the forgotten frying pan on the stovetop has _actually_ spontaneously burst into flames. Commie quickly tries to smother it with an oven mitt he grabs from the kitchen drawer, to little success. 

“No- fucking christ Commie, did you even read your housing agreement?!” Ancap hops out of his seat and sprints over to the sink, quickly reaching into the cabinet underneath and pulling out the fire extinguisher. “All of this was _very clearly_ laid out in the-” 

He’s cut off by the ear-splitting screech of the smoke detector going off overhead. The sprinklers come to life soon after, drenching the entire room in cold, foul-smelling water. Ancap’s shoulders slump in defeat as the fire sputters out. 

“That’s coming out of your rent, red.” 

The sound of the alarm jolts Nazi back awake, with Ancom rising alongside him after a few forceful shakes. God, he’s pretty sure the leftist could sleep through a goddamn nuclear apocalypse. 

“Ngh...mornin’, Naz...the fuck is that?” Ancom yawns, and fuck, that really shouldn’t make his heart flip over like that. The leftist feels his phone buzz in the pocket of his jeans, and he reaches for it, eyes skimming over three missed messages from Ancap. 

**jeff bezos fetishist: You around?** **  
****jeff bezos fetishist: Commie’s looking for you  
********jeff bezos fetishist: YOUR BOYFRIEND SET MY FUCKING KITCHEN ON FIRE**

Before Ancom can inform Nazi of whatever the hell _that_ was supposed to mean, Ancap bursts through Nazi’s door. Nazi squirms in Ancom’s grip, hands groping in vain for a blanket to cover himself with - regardless of intent, he was getting really fucking tired of anarchists just bursting into his room whenever they felt like it. 

“Rise and shine, lovebirds. Commie set off the fucking sprinklers and he won’t help me turn them off.” The right-libertarian is soaking wet, lanky frame looking particularly slight with his suit sticking to his skin and his hair plastered comically over his face. His fedora droops pathetically, and Ancap takes it off for a moment to try and wring it out with both hands before giving up and throwing it to the floor. Fuck it, that was coming out of Commie’s rent too. 

Ancom rolls out of bed first, freeing Nazi to try and hide under the covers. “I’ll just cut the circuit breaker again.” 

“You will _not!_ Last time you fucked around with it I had to come out of pocket to repair the damages!” 

“Not my fault you installed _cameras_ all over the house, you fuckin’ authoritarian,” Ancom quips, looking around for his hoodie on the floor. “Shit’s creepy. You had it coming.” 

“It’s called _securing your liabilities…_ ” Ancap starts, though Nazi isn’t listening at this point. When Ancom finally finds his hoodie, he pulls off Nazi’s shirt and tosses it back to the fascist. While the wrinkled and sweat-stained (hopefully just sweat-stained) garment isn’t exactly what he wants to wear right now, it’s certainly a lot less humiliating than hiding under a blanket, so he sits up and pulls it on. 

He sits back for a moment, fingers idly buttoning his shirt as he watches the anarchists bicker. This was...normal. Everything was still normal. The world hadn’t cracked open and dragged him into the pits of Hell, the _Einsatzgruppen_ hadn’t broken down the door and thrown him into a mass grave. 

He was still breathing. 

In fact, he felt more alive than ever. 

About a week goes by, and though the days pass not a lot _really_ changes. At least, not in any major way. There’s still something weird and unspoken between him and Ancom, but at the very least the uncomfortable tension had melted away into something pleasant, though ambiguous. The unfortunate thing was that this seemed to result in a trade-off; while Ancom’s wandering gazes in his direction no longer drove a spike of disgust through the heart of the fascist like it did before, Commie’s public displays of affection only seemed to grow more and more repulsive. 

And was it just him, or was Commie doing this shit _on purpose_ now? While most of the time he could chalk up the left-authoritarian’s boldness to a simple lack of situational awareness, these days he couldn’t help but feel personally attacked when Commie pulls Ancom into a messy tongue-filled kiss in the middle of dinner, or when the moans from his room are particularly loud right as Nazi _happens_ to be walking by. 

It was strange, admittedly, to know he was _sharing_ the anarchist like this. Though considering all the other moral quandaries the very nature of this relationship required he shirk, knowing that Ancom was regularly fucking the Slav wasn’t at the top of his concerns at the moment. It was just further proof of the slippery slope - you start crossing those lines, and everything keeps tumbling down after. Nazi hated the man he knew he was becoming. But it wasn’t like he could just back out now, not with what he had learned about the other ideologies. Nowhere was safe. 

One of those nights where Nazi made an earnest attempt to get to sleep at a reasonable hour just happened to be the very same night that Ancom, surprisingly, decided to text him first. That was unusual - it was Nazi who picked the times, and when he opened up his phone to see a text reading _want to meet up outside @ 3?_ it definitely took him by surprise. 

Tentatively, Nazi texts back a single flesh-toned OK emoji before glancing over at his alarm clock - well, he has about thirty minutes to get his clothes back on, even if he knew they were going to be torn off soon anyway. The fascist rolls out of bed, looking at his unmade comforter and deciding to go ahead and remake his bed anyway. He pulls the cord to his bedside lamp and feels a smile come to his face at seeing the glorious red sheets, straightened out and neat the way they were supposed to be. It put him at ease. He remembers something Christian Conservative said about cleaning your room, and he decides to spend the next fifteen minutes tidying up his space for the first time in what felt like ages - definitely the first time since he’d started seeing Ancom. 

Seeing Ancom. He pauses right as he’s reshelving his copy of _Storm of Steel_ , pursing his lips. He didn’t like that phrasing one bit. It wasn’t like he and the anarchist were _dating_ or anything. He may be swayed by his own inherent homosexual urges, that much couldn’t be denied, but it wasn’t like he had to indulge in them in _public_. 

Yes, he thinks, looking at himself in the mirror, making sure his hair was combed back and that he stood in one of his less complicated military assemblages (Ancom always liked it when he wore his uniform, but he didn’t always want to go through the effort of putting on a fully decked-out SS ensemble just so he could fuck in it). This was a casual affair. 

He adjusts his armband, already relishing the thought of what Ancom might have to say about it. Maybe he’ll keep his uniform on this time, and force Ancom to undress. Now that he was letting himself explore this side of himself without collapsing in shame and despair, he had to admit that there were a few choice... _fantasies_ running through his head. 

While he wasn’t even aware of the older ideology’s existence at the height of his power, he does wonder what would’ve happened to poor little Ancom had he been caught up in 1940s Germany. While the anarchist outwardly might’ve passed as a WASP, there was no way he would have obeyed the laws at the time and kept his queer urges under wraps. He’d be sent on a train car like the rest of the gender-traitors, and - while Nazi never worked as a camp guard, it was still fun to imagine - maybe he would’ve found his way to the fascist. 

Ancom, all his fighting spirit broken from him, on his knees in front of Nazi wearing nothing but a baggy prisoner’s uniform. Long hair shaved, thinner than he already was now, big green eyes sad and frightened. Would the other men there even recognize him as an ideology in this state? Surely not. Not even the beliefs of his followers would be enough to save him. They’d all be dead.

Nazi would grab him by the collar of his uniform and force his head upward, mouth twisted in a blindingly white grin as the leftist tried to shrink back in fear. He’d feel the strength pulsing through his muscles - ah, everything felt so easy back then. He felt like a man who could move mountains. 

_“You and your wretched kin are finally being purged from our great land,”_ Nazi would sneer, watching as Ancom’s eyes moved left and right, anywhere except meeting the fascist’s cold blue gaze. 

_“Please don’t do this,”_ Ancom would say, voice shaking. _“You fascists are ruining the whole fucking world!”_

Would Nazi recognize Ancom as a fellow ideology? Surely he would in this moment, looking right into the anarchist’s eyes. That telltale circle-A would be unmistakable, and no human had eyes that green. _(Or that beautiful,_ something inside him whispers.) 

_“Fags like you are only good for one thing,”_ Nazi would say, wrenching his hand from the scratchy uniform. He’d stand up straight and begin to unclasp his belt. _“Now make yourself useful before I wring your neck.”_

Ancom’s shaky hands coming up to unzip Nazi’s pants and pull out his cock. Ancom’s soft lips wrapping around him, tears streaking down the leftist’s face both out of fear and as an automatic response to the intrusion as Nazi grabbed him by the back of the head and fucked his face. 

Coming down Ancom’s throat - the leftist was excellent at giving head, he never lasted long like that. Oh, but what if he enjoyed the treatment _so_ much that he wanted to let some of his men in on the action? There were next to no female guards, nor female prisoners, and they all got _so_ lonely and desperate being away from home for so long…

Maybe he’d call them in. Five, ten, fuck, _twenty_ men to pass around poor crying Ancom like a sex doll. The visual of Ancom suffering through this, maybe a fate worse than the gas chamber, being stretched out and filled by cock after fascist cock, used and abused by his worst enemy, all while Nazi watched? Jesus, that was hotter than it had any right to be-

Nazi, in real life, shakes his head, feeling the tightening in his pants. He looks at the clock - ah, fuck, already 3:02. No use getting caught up in his thoughts when the degenerate himself was waiting outside. 

Ancom raises his eyebrows at Nazi as the fascist discretely shuts the front door behind him. 

“Fancy,” he mutters, sitting up straight. Despite the anarchist’s typical chaotic state of being, Nazi had to hand it to him - he was never late, not to these meetings at least. 

“I know you love a man in uniform,” Nazi smirks, adjusting his hat as he meets the anarchist in the driveway. He’s already pulling his car keys from his pocket before Ancom speaks up- 

“Wait, wait. Um. Can I choose where we go this time? I know a good spot.” 

“A good spot?” Nazi echos, glancing down at the leftist. “Why are you just now telling me?” 

“It’s a nice night. Just trust me, okay? I wanna drive.” 

“ _Can_ you drive?” 

“Yes, I can fucking drive!” Ancom pipes up, scrambling to his feet. He swipes the car keys from Nazi’s hand, indignant. “You know, I might _look_ like a homeless college drop-out, but I’m like, fifty fuckin’ years older than you, _kiddo._ ” Ancom opens Nazi’s car and climbs into the driver’s seat, and, somewhat embarrassingly, Nazi lets himself in to sit next to him. He didn’t know why he was readily leaving himself at the mercy of the leftist like this. He didn’t like giving up control, and there was still this latent fear in the back of his mind that this was all some elaborate setup and Ancom was going to take him into some dark alley to bash his brain in with a crowbar. Maybe it was part sleep deprivation and part sexual frustration, he muses to himself, watching as Ancom shoves the key into the ignition and lets the car rumble to life. 

“It’ll be a bit of a drive,” Ancom says, turning his body around so he can watch the car slide out of the driveway. “So get comfy.” 

“There’s a backup camera, dumbass,” Nazi says, but there isn’t the usual venom in his voice. He’s a bit apprehensive, if he’s being honest. He hates letting other people drive. He’s never even let Ancap’s paid chauffeurs ferry him around, it was humiliating to relent like that. At least it was the dead of night, and the chances of them encountering anyone else on the road were slim. 

“They have those now?” is Ancom’s response, but Nazi doesn’t reply. 

A silence falls over the inside of the vehicle. Ancom is a bit of an erratic driver, surprising nobody - often making jerky, sudden stops, or turns that are a little too sharp for comfort. He likes to speed down those empty stretches of country road, the speedometer clicking dangerously upwards. Nazi finds himself grabbing at the roof handle above his window a few times, much to Ancom’s amusement. _You look like a Karen_ , he said, glancing over at the rattled fascist. 

While Nazi feigns a sort of cautious indifference, he can’t help but feel his gaze drift over to the anarchist as he makes an attempt to focus on the road. His soft face still partially obscured by his bandana, pretty doe eyes skimming up and down the road. His hands dancing over the steering wheel - Ancom has small hands with thin, long fingers. They look softer than Commie’s, but are covered in their fair share of calluses and scars. Sometimes they were covered by black fingerless gloves. The chewed nails are still painted with a chipping red and black pattern. His baggy hoodie was the main constant in whatever he happened to wear. Nazi has seen Ancom in various stages of undress, but he rarely, if ever, took the hoodie off. _It makes me feel...safe_ , Ancom had said to him once, brain still too fried in the aftermath of an orgasm to question being so open with the identitarian. 

The ideologies had no choice in the human forms they were given. Nazi was quite happy with his own - he just looked like a prototypical Aryan man, taken right from the pages of propaganda. Ancom, though - Ancom never looked like he was comfortable in his skin, even when he was dressed more revealingly. His rightist counterpart had never fought in a war, that was obvious enough, but Ancom? Fighting against the Bolsheiviks? Ancom swears up and down that he was there with the Makhnovists, and it’s not that Nazi doesn’t _believe_ him, it’s just...hard to picture. This little thing? Helping rally an army? Part of him wishes he knew Ancom back then, even though they would’ve surely tried to murder each other (well, that’s how they started off anyway, isn’t it? And look at where they were now.) Seeing the anarchist in his prime would’ve been a sight, he’s sure. 

(He won’t admit it, but there’s something oddly arousing about the mental image of Ancom dressed up in the Black Army uniform, brandishing a sword and a rifle.) 

Nazi is halfway to dozing off before he feels Ancom suddenly make a hard right. Nazi’s eyes flutter open, and he sits up to see the car’s headlights illuminating a large grassy area framed by a short white fence. 

“The fuck?” Nazi asks, sitting up in his seat and unbuckling himself as Ancom puts the car into park. 

“We’re here,” Ancom says, smirking. He unbuckles his own seatbelt, swinging open the door. Bewildered, Nazi follows him - a bit shaky, as his legs had fallen asleep. It’s chilly out. Nazi crosses his arms over his chest, confused as all hell. 

“We’re not doing this in _public_ ,” Nazi hisses, keeping his voice down. “I refuse. I don’t care what bumfuck part of the woods you took me to. I-” 

“Oh my god, shut up,” Ancom mutters. He turns around to face Nazi, and extends a hand out to him. “Here. Just follow me.” 

Nazi stares at the hand for a moment before it clicks. “I am not holding your hand.” 

“Aw, c’mon, Naz, please? No one’s around.” Ancom pouts, and steps a little closer to the rightist. Nazi’s arm twitches, and, against all his better judgement, he reaches his own hand out to take Ancom’s. His hand is warm; Nazi soon squeezes the leftist’s palm in an iron-strong grip, looking back at the car with a mildly concerned look in his eyes as Ancom leads him past the fence. 

“Wait - Ancom, is this someone’s land?” Nazi asks, gesturing with his free hand towards a PRIVATE PROPERTY: NO TRESPASSING sign that hangs loosely on the fence. 

“Private property is a spook,” Ancom says casually, tugging the fascist forward and through the gap in the border. It’s dark out, but the full moon allows Nazi to see a little bit of the surrounding area; they were in a small park, by the looks of it, and up ahead sounded like running water. The cold, crisp grass crunches under his boots as the anarchist leads him farther into the darkness. 

Finally, Ancom stops, and Nazi squints past him to get a look at where he has been led. A large lake opens up behind the libertarian, with the stars above shimmering in its still reflection. A small fountain rises up farther past the shore, with a decorative light illuminating the spout of water rising into the air. The air smells damp, but pleasing. Natural. A calm falls over the rightist without him even realizing it, shoulders relaxing some of their latent tension.

Ancom crouches into the grass and tugs at Nazi’s hand to follow him down. Still unsure about the leftist’s intentions, Nazi obliges, and soon the two are laying side-by-side on the space where the grass met loose, gravel-filled sand. At first Nazi tries to sit up somewhat, trying to avoid getting his uniform dirty, but Ancom tugs him down until he lays on on his back. The damn commie is persistent. 

They lay like that for a few moments, a quiet similar to that experienced on the drive here falling over them. Nazi gently removes his hat and lays it in his lap, not wanting it to get rumbled or dirtied as he laid his head on the grass. He turns towards Ancom and asks, voice hushed, “Why did you take me here?” 

“I thought it was nice,” Ancom mutters, then falls quiet, ruminating. He elaborates: “I know you uh, fascists have a thing for conserving natural beauty, right? I thought you’d like this. It’s so clear out, look at the sky!” He points a finger up at the air, and Nazi follows the direction, looking up at the indifferent stars above. 

“...Yes,” is all he can muster. “It’s nice.” 

“Do you know your zodiac?” 

Nazi rolls his eyes. “Don’t tell me you believe in that shit. Astrology is another attempt at undermining the validity of hard facts and logi-”

“Give it a rest, auth,” Ancom cuts him off, letting his words fade into a lighthearted chuckle. “It’s just for fun. It’s nice to think that something so random as the way the stars themselves were aligned the _exact moment_ you were born had something to do with the way you are.” 

“Well, we weren’t _born_ , Ancom…” Nazi says, trailing off. He hears Ancom take in a sharp breath of air, gritting his teeth. 

“I mean, _yeah_. But...y’know, you can kinda come up with something about where we’d be. At least our sun sign. I think I’d be a Gemini. And you...oh man, toooootal Scorpio.” 

“I have no idea what that means, but I am going to be offended by it anyway.” 

“I wouldn’t expect anything less from you. Look, you can see Gemini right there!” Nazi tries to follow where Ancom is pointing, narrowing his eyes and looking for some sort of identifiable shape to jump out at him in the inky blackness of the night, but comes up empty. 

“I don’t see anything,” he says, shaking his head. 

“Right there! Right above where the moon is - lemme show you,” he mutters, suddenly grabbing Nazi’s hand again and forcing his index finger out in a point. Puppeting Nazi’s arm like a marionette, he points up a cluster of stars. “That really bright one is Castor, that’s the first twin. And under that is Pollux. And they connect like _that_ , see? That’s the _arm_ , that’s the _body_...” As he speaks, he moves around the fascist’s hand, outlining some image that was ultimately wholly incomprehensible to the authoritarian. 

Nazi shakes his head again, pulling his hand back. “Sure, sure. I can appreciate the stars without projecting some idealistic bullshit onto them. Did you really take me here to go _stargazing_?” 

“I mean, kinda? I thought it’d be a nice thing to do.” He shrugs. There’s something in Ancom’s voice that makes Nazi seriously doubt that this was his _sole_ intent, but he doesn’t really feel like pressing further. 

This was nice. 

...He was still horny, though. That issue was never resolved. He sneaks a quick glance at the leftist, who is clad in his hoodie and a red and black plaid skirt. Was Ancom? Was this some sort of elaborate ritual? A way to test him, tease him? 

“Hey, Ancom?” 

Ancom raises his head up a little to turn and face Nazi, quirking it to one side as he hums a little _hm?_ in response. Nazi inches a little closer and places firm hands on his chin and the side of his face, and Ancom, getting the message, pulls down his bandana and lets the fascist pull him into a deep kiss. 

Nazi’s tongue invades Ancom’s mouth with an impatience that takes the leftist aback, but Ancom quickly tries to regain some control, moving his body closer to the rightist’s and letting his hands grab Nazi’s broad shoulders. Nazi turns, flipping them over and over with his hands gripping Ancom until he’s on top of the smaller ideology, lips still moving against each other. Ancom tries to fight back for a brief moment, grabbing Nazi and trying to flip them over again, but relents, knowing that the authoritarian’s weight had him pinned. 

“Don’t resist me,” Nazi says, breaking away from the kiss with a wet sound that would’ve been a little gross if the two of them weren’t ridiculously turned on right now. “It’s hopeless. You’re _weak_.” He moves his mouth from next to Ancom’s ear to lick a stripe down his neck. “And you’re _mine_.” He relishes in the way he can feel the leftist shiver underneath him. 

“Commie might have something to say about that,” Ancom mutters. 

“That Slav bastard isn’t here right now. Does Commie treat you like _this_?” Nazi lets one of his hands drift to Ancom’s neck, applying a slight but threatening pressure. Ancom whimpers, and it’s a delectable sound. Nazi feels a wicked grin spread across his face. 

“Commie actually knows what _aftercare_ is, you asshole,” Ancom mutters, but there’s no genuine anger behind his voice. Nazi is about to start choking Ancom for real when the leftist pipes up again- 

“ _No pasarán_ , remember?” His safeword. “Or if I can’t talk, I’ll just smack you real hard.” Nazi nods in understanding. 

“Still _sonnenrad_ for me.” 

“Cool, cool, Carry on- _ah_..” As soon as Ancom gives him the okay, Nazi squeezes his hand around his neck. Feeling the leftist’s pulse quicken under his palm sends a jolt of arousal through his body that spreads into a pleasant warmth in his belly. His dress pants were quickly becoming too tight for comfort. His hips start to roll forward, creating a delicious friction between himself and the anarchist. His body naturally seeks pressure; his arm shakes as he tightens his grip around Ancom’s neck, while his other hand moves to support himself, hand pressing into the damp grass as he slightly raises his body upwards. 

Nazi realizes that he himself has been holding his breath as he watches Ancom squirm and sputter under him, watching those pretty green eyes rolling back, back, back into his skull. Even under the thin layer of moonlight basking over them, Nazi can tell Ancom’s face is turning a lovely red that would make any communist proud. 

Nazi catches Ancom’s parted lips in another kiss, chuckling to himself as Ancom lets out choked little whimpers. When they part, Nazi looks down at the anarchist and spits into his open mouth. Ancom stares up at him for a bit, eyes glassy, and finally, finally, Nazi relents, letting his hand loosen. 

Ancom lets out a loud gasp of air, scrambling under the authoritarian as he lets in several deep, heaving breaths. “Y-You asshole...you could’ve kn-knocked me unconscious…” he says, words interspersed by shaky coughs. 

“Aw, what a shame,” Nazi smirks. “What would I do without hearing your _lovely_ voice grating against my eardrums?” 

“You’re sick.” Ancom rubs a hand over his throat, biting a lip; that would definitely leave some colorful bruises. “I feel like you wouldn’t even stop if I were unconscious.” 

“And what if I didn’t? Not much you could do about it.” 

“Oh yeah? Want to fuck my unconscious body? Fuck someone who can’t even fight back, or defend quemself?” Ancom’s words drip with venom, but the smirk across his face tells Nazi he’s putting on their usual act. “Fascists are more fucked in the head than I thought.” 

“Fucked in the head? I’d put my cock through your goddamn _skull_ if I could.” Nazi pokes his finger into Ancom’s forehead for emphasis; Ancom grabs his hand and bends it backwards, grinning as he hears several pops and cracks followed by a harsh swear from the fascist. 

Nazi wrenches his hand back. “ _Scheisse!”_ He slaps Ancom across the face, glaring daggers down at him. “Who do you think you are, you stupid faggot?” 

“I think I’m the stupid faggot you want to pin down and fuck senseless.” Ancom laughs, then inches a little backwards, wriggling out of Nazi’s grip. He sits up on his knees and reaches into a pocket, retrieving the now familiar bottle of lube and tossing it towards Nazi. Nazi raises a hand to catch it, popping open the top and letting Ancom crawl towards him. 

“Perhaps. Get over here.” Ancom comes over to the fascist and lays down, giving Nazi access to lift up his skirt and take off his- 

_Oh_. Ancom isn’t wearing underwear, Nazi realizes, bringing the skirt up with a free hand. He feels his face heat up. The idea that Ancom was just... _like that_ the whole time, driving the car, looking up at the stars, without anything covering him besides the thin garment this whole time... _oh großer Gott._

He looks up at Ancom, who has the most aggravating-yet-hot smug little grin on his face. Slowly, the leftist spreads his legs. “Whatcha waiting for?” 

Nazi, shaking off the shock, narrows his eyes and grabs Ancom roughly by the hips, dragging him closer. He squirts some of the lube over his fingers - like it or not, he’s gotten pretty used to this, and while it’s probably his least favorite part of fucking the leftist, the one time he tried to go in without any preparation earned him a baseball bat to the head.

It was also just...weirdly intimate compared to everything else they did. As he slips his index finger inside, Ancom lets out a keen, leaning his hips forward to meet him. Nazi is never really sure what to say while he’s doing this. Mostly, he just wanted it done and over with; his dick ached inside of his pants, and if Ancom kept squirming around and making those _noises_ he might just say fuck it and go for it anyway, consequences be damned. 

“More, more,” Ancom whines, fingers digging into the ground underneath him. Nazi obliges, moving in a second finger and gently scissoring them inside of the anarchist’s tight insides. Nazi tries to find that spot that always makes Ancom cry out the loudest - he’s not great at it, but sometimes he knows he’s brushed up against it with the way Ancom’s legs quiver, a half-gasp half-squeal slipping past his lips. 

“Nazi…” Ancom whimpers, dragging out the vowel. He’s impatient too, Nazi can feel it. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he removes his fingers, still slick with the lube. 

Now it’s Nazi’s turn to quirk his head to the side, smile thin and malicious. “What’s the matter?” 

“Just do it already…” Ancom looks off to the side, eyes fixated somewhere where the trees meet the freeway. 

“Do what? You’ve _got_ to use your words.” 

“You’re a dick. You know you’re a dick, right?” 

Nazi doesn’t reply, simply content with watching the libertarian groan in frustration. Deep down, he was thankful that Ancom was clearly too occupied with his own arousal to see the tenting erection evident in the fascist’s pants. 

“I want you to fuck me,” Ancom mutters. 

“Beg.” 

“Oh come _on_ , I know you want this just as much as I do!” 

“Prove how much _you_ want it. Or I guess we can just leave.” 

“That’s bullshit, Naz, I’ve got like fifteen people I could fuck instead of you tonight. Sincerely doubt you can say the same.” 

Ouch. “...Okay, that’s a bit too real. Just humor me? Maybe?” 

Ancom rolls his eyes. “Please fuck me. Fuck me, Nazi. _Sir._ I want to be filled up with your fascist cock, sir. Put me in my place like the little degenerate interloper I am. Aren’t you _angry_ at who you are? What you’ve become? Another dirty fag like those you promised to purge.” 

Yeah, that does it. Nazi, who’d been sort of fiddling with his best as he’d went back and forth with Ancom, makes quick work of the zippers and buttons and frees his cock. Ancom glances upward, licking his lips as it springs forward into the cold air. 

Nazi lines himself up and pushes in, and Ancom moans, high and desperate. Nazi barely holds back a groan in return, slowly letting himself stretch out the anarchist as he pushes his hips forward. His eyes squeeze shut, relishing the feeling of Ancom’s walls pulsing and squeezing around him as he fully sheathes himself inside of the leftist. His hands move from Ancom’s hips to his thighs, pulling his body flush against his own. He feels his fingers dig into the soft flesh as he begins a steady rhythm, starting out slow but quickly moving rougher, faster, the night’s pent-up sexual frustration finally getting its outlet. 

“Oh, fuck, Nazi…” Ancom sighs, head leaning back to look up at the clear sky as Nazi pounds harder and harder into him. Looking back at the rightist, just the sight of this man - this _fascist_ , this literal embodiment of everything he stands against, this pale man with straw blond hair and piercing blue eyes narrowed in concentration as his cock slams in and out of Ancom’s ass, is enough to send a ripple of red-hot arousal through his body. “Jesus...that’s right, fuck me, fuck me you fucking fash scum!” 

Nazi’s fingers dig harder into Ancom, leaving red little imprints where his sweat-slick grip shifts. He pauses for a moment, causing the leftist to whine in frustration before Nazi readjusts their position, hooking his legs over the uniformed man’s shoulders before plunging abruptly back in, deeper than before. 

Ancom yowls, thoughts sent into orbit by the feeling of Nazi’s cock digging right into his prostate. The night air is filled with Ancom’s increasingly incoherent wails and the sound of Nazi’s strong thighs slamming against him. 

“Ohhh my fffffucking god, h-harder sir, fuck! Every fascist should be seduced by a queer in a skirt...I bet there’d be a lot more homona- _ahh_ -tionalists running around if they knew h-how good this feels, _ngh!_ ” Ancom’s fingers scramble for a grip on something, anything - he ends up just ripping the grass underneath them out of the ground, fingers curling up into the dirt below. He looks like he’s about to rocket off into space, eyes unfocused and teary, little rivulets of mascara and drool coating his face as his tongue lolls out. 

God, he looks fucking gorgeous like this. “You fucking whore. Seduced by ‘a queer in a skirt,’ or by _you_ , Ancom? You look like you could take on your fair share of men. You’d like that, wouldn’t you. Spreading your disease to all the few good men left in the world.” He grunts, pushing harder and harder into the leftist, trying to nail that sensitive bundle of nerves inside of him every time. _“You_ did this to me! You fucked up my head...this shouldn’t feel this fucking _good_ , damn it…”

“You’re _ruined_ now, Nazi,” Ancom gasps. “No woman is ever going to want you now. And you’re _never_ going to even th-think about going back to one. You’re only gonna crave tight asses a-and my lips from now on.” 

“Shut up,” Nazi grunts, feeling a shiver creep down his spine at the leftist’s words. Fucking christ, _why_ were those obscene words just turning him on more? 

“You’re a filthy fag just like me now.” Ancom’s voice shakes - he almost sounds on the verge of tears. “And you love it.” 

“You’re a fucking liar,” Nazi hisses, slamming hard into the anarchist. “A filthy lying whore.” 

“I’m your filthy whore, sir,” Ancom pants in response. “I’m your dirty lying slut, just a tight hole for you to fuck, n-now treat me like it! Fuck me! Or are you not even man enough to live up to your delusional expectations of your own gender ident-” 

Nazi silences Ancom’s tangent by leaning forward, bending the leftist in half in a way that aches wonderfully as he covers Ancom’s mouth, muffling his noises and pounding home again and again hard enough to make both of their bodies shake. 

As soon as Nazi sees Ancom’s teary, makeup-smeared eyes looking helplessly into his own it pushes him over the edge; he freezes up, keeping himself buried to the hilt inside of the other ideology as he feels the first waves of his orgasm overtake him. He groans, arms shaking and finally falling away from Ancom and moving to steady himself as he feels himself fill up the little leftist, who moans in pure wanton ecstasy. 

“That’s right, breed your leftie bitch, oh god!-” Ancom’s voice tapers off into a high-pitched whimper as his own orgasm hits him like a truck, his cum wetting his skirt and the space between their two bodies. His arms wrap around Nazi’s shoulders on instinct, desperate for something to hold onto as the pleasure shoots through his body. Nazi’s head drops, gritting his teeth to hold back any other embarrassing noises as Ancom squeals and swears in his ear - _shit!_

Ancom fucking _bites_ him, teeth sinking into his neck definitely hard enough to draw blood. Nazi lets out a baffled _what the fuck?,_ jerking away from the equally perplexed anarchist. He pulls out, quickly tucking himself back into his pants and rolling off the other ideology. 

Ancom shakily lifts himself up, licking the blood from his lips. “Oh, shit, sorry man. Wasn’t thinking.” He smooths his skirt over himself, hiding the trickle of Nazi’s cum that was now leaking out of him. 

Nazi brings a hand up to his neck, rubbing at the tender pierced flesh with a sour expression. “How am I supposed to hide this?” 

“I’ll let you borrow some coverup,” Ancom says, shrugging. Blasé about this shit as always. “Though I don’t think mine will exactly match your fuckin’ saltine cracker skin.” 

“I’m not wearing _makeup!”_

Ancom gives him a blank stare. “You just came in my ass, dude. _That’s_ the hill you want to die on?” 

Nazi blushes, but doesn’t reply, still collecting his breath from the intensity of his climax. He lets himself lay back down on the grass, and a few moments later, Ancom joins him, inching a bit closer than he was last time. 

For a third time that night, a quiet settles over the two opposite ideologies. Nazi feels something in the air that he was mildly aware of before - now, it seemed like an unnamed _something_ was buzzing between the two. Something uncomfortable. 

Ancom, finally, speaks up - “Nazi?” 

His voice is quiet. Small. It’s not like him. “...Yes?” 

“I…” Ancom coughs, stalling. Briefly Nazi thinks he’s just going to trail off and forget about it - hopes it, really - but Ancom continues. “I think I like you too.” 

“What?” 

“I know you...like me, Naz. Not just sexually.” 

“Wh- Ancom, you know this is just a-” 

“Holy shit, let me finish. I know you like me and I _know_ you’re not going to admit it, not even to yourself, so I’m just saying that I like you too and. And I’d be willing to try and let it work.” He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair (still a bit plastered to his forehead with sweat.) “I know it doesn’t make sense. I know Commie and everyone else is going to be pissed at me, but, fuck them. I haven’t _felt_ like this in a long time and it’s fucking me up. I...I actually think I _like_ you, Nazi. I think I want to date you.” 

Nazi is quiet. 

“...Naz?” 

Silence. Ancom looks over - Nazi is already about as white as they come, but he looks like a ghost in the darkness, now, eyes wide and...scared. 

“Nazi? Are you-” 

“I need some time to process this.” 

Nazi rises to his feet and starts to walk. Ancom quickly scrambles up after him. “Where are you going?” 

“We’re done here.” 

Ancom stops, watching as Nazi continues towards the car. “Wait- wait- you mean like...we’re done... _here_? Or we’re done like...we’re done.” 

“We’re done here. I want to go home.” Nazi reaches into his pocket before remembering, shaking his head and turning back towards the leftist. “My keys.” 

Ancom watches himself reach into his pocket and get the keys out, doing Nazi the courtesy of unlocking the car before he tosses them to the fascist. The silver fasces charm glimmers in the light as they fly through the air; Nazi catches them with impeccable coordination. Nazi lets himself into the driver’s seat, putting the key into the ignition as Ancom walks over to meet him. 

Ancom opens the passenger side door with a shaking, stiff hand. The air suddenly feels frigid; as he sits down in the seat he feels the cold leather press up against the back of his legs. 

“I’m sorry,” he mutters as Nazi pulls back onto the main road. 

The nationalist doesn’t say a word on the long, long drive home. 


End file.
